


Best Of Luck

by Maple_Fay



Category: E.R.
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 15:22:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/640269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maple_Fay/pseuds/Maple_Fay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An arrogant, selfish git as he might be, Romano understands me.</p>
<p>I wonder whether one day I’d be able to say the same about him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Season 6 AU, starting right after the events of "All In The Family". A Cordano story, so if it doesn't float your boat I'd suggest skipping it...
> 
> For the purpose of this story, Elizabeth and Mark are dating, but their relationship has not yet reached the 'serious-and-exclusive' stage.

I lean my head against the tiles in the shower—the _hospital_ shower, one which I normally don’t use willingly—and close my eyes, pretending that the wetness on my face is all water and no bodily fluid.

I failed. I made a promise, and I failed.

My instincts tell me to beat the tiles with my fists until I bleed. The small, solitary part of my brain that still seems to function reasons with me, saying it won’t do anyone any good. I beg to differ. It would do _me_ a whole lot of good.

But I guess that, in the end, I don’t even _want_ to feel good. Not about myself, not about anything, really.

0o0o0o

By the time I manage to drag myself out of the locker room, it’s already light outside. I cringe as the sunlight dashes towards me and close my eyes, wondering what else I could possibly do to delay going back home. I don’t want to see my mother. She’d try to be supportive in her own cold and awkward way, and only wire me up further. I don’t need support.

I just need someone to _understand_.

The doors to my right open and Kerry steps out of what I only now recognize as the room we’d worked on Lucy—the last stretch, the moment in which everything failed. Robert follows closely behind Kerry, and I instantly realize what they’d been doing there.

Saying goodbye.

I admire their composure, perhaps even envy it. I haven’t been able to come back in there, to look at her still, pale face again. I doubt I ever will.

“Lizzie.” Robert’s voice is small and tired, his eyes dim. “I thought you went home.”

I shake my head silently, too tired to explain. Kerry nods at me with something akin to a shade of smile on her face, and it makes me feel even worse. Robert frowns and steps closer, touching my hip in the same way he did hours ago, when we argued about the heparin—it feels oddly intimate, yet not sexual; it comforts me, as much as I’d like to deny it.

“Why did you stay?” he asks quietly, his face impassive but his eyes burning with an emotion I cannot quite identify. Kerry looks at us for a moment before turning away and walking slowly towards the lifts, and I breathe out, the gush of air coming through my mouth ending up as something rather similar to a sob.

“Mother’s staying at my place,” I murmur towards the floor, noticing out of the corner of my eye that knowing gleam in Robert’s eyes.

“Say no more. Let’s get you out of here.” The hand on my hip presses slightly, making me turn into his body as he leads me gently to follow in Kerry’s footsteps.

I should say something. I _want_ to say something—to protest. I cannot find it in me.

“Robert,” I finally manage as the lift doors open on the ground floor. “What are you—where are we—“

“Hush, Lizzie,” he chastises me gently, shaking his head as he manoeuvres me through the corridors of ER—I think I can see Mark in the distance, but I’m too dazed, too drowsy to react—and out the door, to the parking lot. “You may not believe that, but I’m trying to help you.”

“By kidnapping me?”

“By giving you the time and space that you obviously need. Now, hush, or people will think I’d actually put my money where my mouth is and decided to haul you away to my lair.”

“Are you at least going to tell me where we’re going?” Somehow, talking to Robert makes me feel slightly better. Refreshed. He’s so infuriating he makes my blood course faster through my veins, carrying adrenaline and a bitter pang of irritation, somehow dulled now by the pain and anguish.

“My lair.”

“Of course.”

“Shut up, Lizzie.”

0o0o0o

 I must have dozed off in the car, because the next thing I remember after getting in it is Robert shaking my shoulder gently, leaning over the open passenger door. “Wake up, Lizzie, before you’ll freeze to death out here.”

I blink sleepily and run a hand over my face, disentangling myself from the safety bell to follow Robert up his townhouse front steps. He’s fumbling with the keys, fingers shaking ever so slightly—he must be just as exhausted as me, although he hides it better—and I hear Gretel yelping on the other side of the door. “Won’t she mind?” I ask, only half-consciously wondering why on Earth do I care about some _dog’s_ feelings. Robert gives me an amused sideways glance, echoing my thoughts.

“She’s nowhere near as territorial as other females I’d shared my living space with.” Was that an actual, proper mention of his private life? I try not to appear _too_ astonished. “Besides, I can always tell her you’re here to follow up on her—strictly professional visit, and all.”

I have no idea how he can joke around like this, but, in a way, I feel grateful for it. “You wish,” I murmur as he opens the door, Gretel springing forward and waggling her tail in welcome. She presses her wet, cold nose into my palm, and suddenly I can’t hold back the tears anymore.

This is pathetic. Hello, I’m Elizabeth Corday, and I weep like a child if a dog licks my hand. Splendid.

“There now, Lizzie. Breathe.”

I blink rapidly, shaking my head with obvious distaste. “I’d better go. I’m nowhere near fit to—“

“Not another word, Dr Corday.” His voice takes on that awful, snarly quality with which he usually addresses me at work: which, thankfully, seems to be just the thing I needed to sober up. Clearing my throat, I step over the threshold, trying to ignore the fact that the bouvier is still clinging to my side, and completely ignoring her master. For a split second I’m thinking about apologizing for my outburst, but in the end decide against it.

It’s not necessary, I realize as I follow Robert into his house, down the hallway and into a pristinely kept kitchen. Not with the two of us. An arrogant, selfish git as he might be, Romano understands me.

I blankly watch him move around, feeding Gretel and filling up kettle with water, and wonder whether one day I’d be able to say the same about me understanding _him_.

“Here, take these.”

I frown down at two small pills resting in his outstretched palm. “I don’t need to be _sedated_ , thank you very much.”

Robert rolls his eyes, pushing a glass of water in my direction. “It’s melatonin, you infuriating woman. It’ll help you sleep.”

I swallow obediently, yet still manage to glare at him—must be the prolonged exposure to my mother’s lovely character. “I know how melatonin _works_ , Robert. I am a doctor, after all.”

I expect some more banter, calling me out on that statement, something along those lines of thought. I _don’t_ expect the solemn expression with which he regards me, before looking down at his now empty hands. “That you are. And a bloody good one, too.”

A ball of bile rises up in my throat, threatening to spill over the countertop, Robert’s shirtfront and whatever else it encounters. “I have a bit of a trouble believing it just now.”

Robert closes his eyes for a second, and as he opens them it strike me how exhausted he looks. “Let’s not do this now,” he says slowly, avoiding my eyes. “Get yourself to bed before you keel over, Lizzie. Upstairs, second door on the left—and don’t be alarmed if Gretel follows you.”

With that, he leaves me, sitting speechless at the kitchen counter, the water boiling uselessly on the stove. I turn the gas off and pour myself a cup of tea—he’d prepared two cups, but I decide against filling both of them—before heading upstairs, looking for what I’d expect to be the guest bedroom.

As I enter the room (furnished in that generic, hotel-like style people apply to rooms they rarely use at all), closely followed by the bouvier, the impropriety of this whole situation strikes me head-on. I shouldn’t be here. I should go home, to mother, endure an hour or so of vaguely concerned questioning, and collapse into my own, familiar bed—one I wouldn’t have to share with a dog the size of a cow.

My mind is all but set on letting myself out and hauling a cab, by the time I notice that I’d somehow managed to lose my sweater and skirt, and am currently standing at the foot of the bed clad only in my slip, eyeing the cream white pillows with growing fondness.

A soft nudge of Gretel’s nose to my thigh helps me make up my mind: I slip between the covers and curl into a ball on my side, the bouvier hopping heavily on the duvet beside me and tugging her squarely head under my chin. I throw my arms around her—a big teddy bear for a big girl—and squeeze my eyes shut, letting my tears wet the dog’s fur.

Much like her master did, she doesn’t seem to mind my crying.

**TBC…**


	2. Chapter 2

I wake up alone, in the slowly descending dusk, and for a minute or so am completely confused as to my whereabouts. Then, as the faint smell of dog fur hits my nostrils, I remember.

I’m at Romano’s.

Carter is still fighting for his life.

And Lucy, dear, gentle, lovely Lucy Knight, is dead, although I promised her she’d make it.

I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, silently listing off the steps of all the procedures I’d performed last night. Pull. Push. Clamp. Cut. Tie up. Red to red, yellow to yellow, white to white—basic colouring for trauma surgeons, with the expected result of not only a beautiful picture coming together, but also the patient making it through post-op and recovery, and leaving the hospital on their only two feet.

_Elizabeth has failed the class, it would seem_ , a voice of one of my university professors echoes in my head. I squeeze my eyes shut. I hate wallowing.

The important part isn’t the fact that I failed. The important part is that Lucy is gone, and I’m still here—and somehow it feels like my hands are as bloody as those of the stabber.

This is wallowing again, I know, but I deliberately choose to ignore it.

I should go home. I should take a shower, eat something, face an endless string of questions my mother undoubtedly has at the ready. Do the sensible thing, the reasonable thing.

I’m not sure I care about sensibilities anymore. And yet I know I shouldn’t stay here: Romano did me a great favour by letting me push the world away for a while, but enough is enough. It’s time to pick up the pieces, and become myself again.

I slip my clothes back on, inhaling the all-familiar scent: my moisturizer, my perfume; little things that make me who I am. Perhaps not all of it is gone.

The upstairs corridor in dark and silent, so I trod gently down the stairs, looking for the master of the house—oh, how he’d laugh if he could hear my thoughts right now. I need to make my excuses, I need to leave…

I stop at the entryway to the den.

Romano is sitting on the sofa, completely motionless, his hands resting on his thighs, pale and limp. His gaze is fixed on the TV screen. The telly, however, is turned off.

I should go.

And yet.

This man looks every bit as miserable as I feel. He offered me protection, he helped me when I needed my time and space. Shouldn’t I at least try to repay the favour?

“I can almost _hear_ you think, Lizzie.”

I wince and roll my eyes, crossing the length of the room to stand by the sofa, wringing my hands together like a lost little girl. Enraged at my own antics, I take the final step and sit down in the corner of the sofa, mimicking Romano’s posture and fixing my eyes on his reflection rather than himself. “What _am_ I thinking, then?”

“You’re trying to find a good enough reason for returning home to your lovely mother.” The words are ironic, but his voice lacks its usual bite. “You can stop now. I called the hospital, checked both our messages and informed the surgery desk clerk that you’d checked in with me, said you needed some time off, and not to worry about your whereabouts. A message of this nature has been passed on to your house guest.”

“Why would I report to my supervisor, and not my mother?”

Romano’s eyes flick upwards and meet mine in the blackness. Oh, yes. With a mother like mine, and a supervisor like him, I’d do just that. Pox on that man for knowing me so well.

“Did Mark call, by any chance?” I ask, trying to feign indifference to the answer. Romano looks away, staring at the empty screen with grim intent.

“Only about fourteen times,” he offers ungenerously. “Should I be worried about losing my favourite surgeon anytime soon?”

“I’ve always thought Peter was your favourite,” I quip humourlessly, trying to find in me any kind of smugness at Mark’s obvious interest in my wellbeing. Nothing comes forward.

“Ah, yes—Benton’s a damn good surgeon, but you’re _my_ _girl_ , Lizzie. Although I might be forced to kill you if you repeat this to anyone.”

I shake my head, looking down at my hands: my cold, numb, useless hands. “Either way, you shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble. Not for _my_ sake.”

“Elizabeth.” Whenever he calls me that, I know that the words to come are going to be properly serious. This isn’t about teasing, about testing the boundaries: it’s about conveying some meaning that might potentially be important, to both of us. “You spent the night trying to save the life of a young woman whom you knew fairly well. I was simply trying to cut you some slack, given the outcome.”

Ah, yes. What a lovely way to put it. “You mean—given that I let her die.”

His head snaps up, and finally he turns to look at me directly. I’d rather he didn’t: up close his eyes look even more tired, and haunted—possibly by the same ghosts that currently crowd my head. When he speaks, though, his voice is even, his words measured. “You did no such thing. You fought for her with all you got. I was there, remember?”

I turn away and pick at the edge of an afghan, separating us on the sofa. “I gave her my word. I told her I’d get her through all that.”

“Which you shouldn’t have done. You’re not God Almighty, Lizzie. You’re a surgeon—and a damn good one, too—but even the best surgeons are only human. We try our best, with every patient. But we never make promises.”

I snort, suddenly angry at his calm and composure, finding it infinitely irritating. “You’ve never done it, then? Never promised anyone something you didn’t keep in the end?”

I know my voice came out bitter, but the pause before he finally answers is far longer than I’d expect after a retort like this—one meant to hurt, but not kill. “I have. I no longer do. Learnt my lesson well. As you should.”

Something tells me he doesn’t mean an operation gone wrong. I bow my head and look at my hands, wondering idly whether I have just heard an actual, private confession from the man who never offers any insight into his life to those he works with. Romano is extremely –closed-off, that much at least is common knowledge.

So why open yourself up like this? Why now?

Last night affected me. It’s rather safe to assume it did the same thing to him. Which might be yet another reason for me leave this house—this unreal, timeless place of silence and grief—and pretend I never heard anything.

We’re not friends, Romano and I. We may be able to understand one another, we bicker constantly and fight on a daily basis: but none of that gives us any right to pry, much less to make use of any personal information offered up in a moment of weakness. Romano may not realize this now, but he will come to regret telling me this—and he’ll make my life a living hell because of it.

I don’t want this to happen. Not now that we’d actually manage to stay civil to each other for longer than fifteen minutes at a time. This man offered me comfort when I needed it: I wouldn’t want to repay him with uneasiness and power-play.

“I should go,” I repeat quietly, picking at a loose thread off the upholstery. Romano doesn’t offer and further protests. “I’ll call for a cab.”

“I’ll do it,” he offers automatically, reaching out for the phone. “There’s food in the kitchen. You should at least have some before you leave.”

His consideration is unusual—to say the least—and leaves me quite stunned and speechless, unable to refuse. I therefore pad to the kitchen, expecting half-emptied packets of Chinese takeaway littering the countertop: but, to my astonishment, I discover a pan full of spaghetti carbonara and a simple salad, waiting to be devoured. Plates and utensils have been laid out—just one set, I notice just after I’d helped myself to a generous portion. This means that Robert has either eaten when I was asleep, or did not intend to have any of the (surprisingly tasty) food he himself prepared.

I’m about to rinse the plate off in the sink when I hear the taxi horn from the street—Romano timed it all perfectly, I will give him that. I’m hoping to see my host before I leave, but he’s left the sofa and is now nowhere to be seen. I stand in the corridor and listen to the quiet, drowsy house, drawing out the time before my departure until the taxi driver honks again, much more viciously, making me dash out of the door without having said my goodbyes.

It’s not until I’m opening the door to my own flat that I realize there’s something else: I never thanked Robert for his hospitality, for whisking me away from the world for those few precious hours.

I contemplate calling him, but decide against it, what with my mother chattering away a mile a minute and my head pounding with dull, persistent ache. After all, my shift starts in less than four hours—I can always talk to him at the hospital. Yes, that’s probably for the best.

0o0o0o

“Is Doctor Romano in?” I ask the secretary, trying to keep my voice light and breezy. She gives me a look that’s not exactly unpleasant, but still makes me cringe inwardly.

“Doctor Romano has gone away for a while,” she informs me with a bitter sneer. “Here’s some papers he’d left for you to sort out during his absence. Have fun.”

“When will he be back?” I ask, turning the file in my hands and trying to wrap my head around the idea of Robert abandoning his post—and _me_ —at a time like this. The girl gives me a one-shoulder shrug, clearly stating she couldn’t have cared less if she tried.

I leave the office, for some reason focusing only on one thing: did he take Gretel with him? And if not, who’s taking care of her?

Perhaps thinking about animal welfare is just easier, I reason with myself as I get into the lift and check my beeping pager.

Mark.

**TBC…**


End file.
